The Autumn Castle (34 page)

Disapproving murmurs circulated.

“Now we return to the castle. You will hear from us, within days, with your blessings. Do not concern yourselves. Your queen
is good and your queen is wise. She will not disappoint you.” With that, Eisengrimm gave the order for the carriage to turn,
and moments later it was rattling back up the slope to the castle. The crowd dispersed with angry whispers and pale faces.

“What shall we do?” Mayfridh sobbed. “You have made them a promise we may not be able to keep.”

“We shall keep it,” Eisengrimm said through gritted teeth. “I shall make sure of it.”

“How? We’ve already searched for her for days.”

“I do not trust the royal guard to find her. They are not keen enough hunters. They make too much noise and they cannot follow
a scent. I can be a fox, the stealthiest of hunters. I will go out there by myself.”

“But how will you capture her? She’s strong and unpredictable. You need their help.”

“I need not remain a fox, Mayfridh.” Eisengrimm glanced away, his yellow eyes narrowing against the light. “I’ve not yet met
a witch who is any match for a bear.”

Hexebart is snakes-in-the-blood angry. These hands are still twisted and tied and ouch! she saws and saws at the edge of the
broken tree, and the ropes hold fast. Nasty little dog! He knew how clever Hexebart was, and he had them tied and tied and
tied again.

One part of the rope breaks, another knot holds it firm. Hexebart is hungry—she eats leaves and drinks dewdrops, but Hexebart
wants to taste that Real World food that is hot and saucy and salty and goes on a plate. Her guts squeeze tight just thinking
of it. She saws her ropes on the tree trunk again.

Back and forth, back and forth,

To the south and to the north,

Forth and back, forth and back,

Drown old dog’s breath in a sack.

Hexebart won’t give up. They’ll never find her. She can hear them stomping past like elephants, thinking that they’re quiet.
Thud, thud, stomp, stomp, shhhh. It will take a wilier hunter than that to catch Hexebart. She’s had enough of Ewigkreis.

It was once so different and Hexebart sighs. Once, she loved Queen Liesebet who was soft and pale and pretty, and how she
misses Queen Liesebet! Hexebart begged Queen Liesebet not to take the little changeling redhead. Hexebart even offered Queen
Liesebet her own daughter. But Queen Liesebet wanted a pretty child; that was all she cared about. How Hexebart wishes Queen
Liesebet was still here. Then Hexebart would be living in a warm chamber and eating red soup and bread with butter, and not
freezing outside in a tree trunk with her hands twisty-tied. How Hexebart hates the little princess for disposing of her parents
and taking over. And how Hexebart hates hates hates that nobody else suspects Mayfridh of anything wicked.

It’s not fair. Hexebart saws at the ropes again. Something gives, but another knot holds her. Not fair, not fair, not fair.
Hexebart despairs, Hexebart is very, very hungry.

Mayfridh and Eisengrimm waited until the afternoon drew long and shadowy before approaching the Eternal Woods alone.

“You should return to the castle,” Eisengrimm said as Mayfridh sat herself against a tree.

“I want to be here for you. You’ll be in pain.” When Eisengrimm changed to Bear the pressure on his joints and organs would
bruise him for weeks. “Besides, I want to see Hexebart dragged out of the wood by a bear, with my own eyes.”

“You must be silent.”

“I won’t move a hair. I’ll breathe like a mouse.”

“She’ll hear a mouse. Breathe quieter than a mouse.”

“I have magic left in my hands. I’ll work a silent glamour.”

“Good. Good.” His wolf eyes flicked right and left. He was ner-vous. “Now, I haven’t changed to Bear for many years. I’ll
take a moment here, where I’m safe, to practice.”

“Go on.” Mayfridh smoothed her blue skirt—one of her Real World favorites—over her knees and tucked her feet beneath her.

Eisengrimm took a breath, then pushed up on to his hind legs. With an awful creaking noise, like the sound of joints under
strain, his gray fur shimmered brown and his body began to grow. In an eye blink, a large bear stood before her. Eisengrimm
let out a sigh of pain.

“Dear friend,” Mayfridh said, climbing to her feet, “does it hurt terribly?”

He came down on all fours and grunted. “Yes, but I can endure it for long enough to catch the witch.”

“Stand again, Eisengrimm,” she said, gazing with wonder at his new shape.

He reared on his back legs again, balanced steadily.

She spread her arms. “In this shape I can hold you, almost as if you were a man,” she said, moving to embrace him.

“Don’t, Mayfridh,” he said.

“Surely it won’t hurt to hug you,” she insisted, sliding her arms around his middle. “Go on, you can hold me too.”

A reluctant pair of Bear arms encircled her waist. She snuggled against his warm, large chest. Twilight shadows moved over
them in the breeze and a dim ray of sunshine glinted on his fur. She breathed in deep and sighed. For the first time in years,
she felt she had found safe haven.

“It’s wonderful to hold you,” she breathed.

He did not reply. The rhythm of the wood around her pulsed in her veins: the creaking of tree branches, the flutter of leaves,
the lift and stir of the debris beneath them. His heart beat a steady cadence. She remembered a song from her childhood and
hummed a few bars, fitting it to the pulse around her. Eisengrimm’s arms tightened, one of his paws pressed into her back.
She sang a few lines out loud, then laughed.

“Come, Eisengrimm,” she said, stepping back and taking his Bear paws in her hands. “Let us dance.”

He tore his paws away and returned to the ground, shaking off Bear and shrinking down to Fox. “I haven’t time, Mayfridh,”
he said gruffly.

Mayfridh pouted, but didn’t protest. Perhaps the pain had made him irritable. “Very well,” she said, resuming her position
under the tree. “I shall wait here for you, as silent as magic can make me, and relish seeing you drag the hag screaming from
the wood.”

“I won’t fail you,” he said. Was that a catch in his voice? Eisengrimm was very moody this afternoon.

“I don’t doubt you, old friend,” she said.

He slunk off into the woods and disappeared from sight. She listened hard, but he was perfectly silent. With the magic left
in her hands, she worked a silent glamour, so that none of her movements would cause the tiniest noise for Hexebart to hear.
She leaned her head against the tree and waited.

Mayfridh wondered what Jude was doing at this moment. And Christine too. And Diana. The Real World continued without her.
Did they think about her at all?

She sighed, but the silent glamour ensured that no sound emerged. Of course they thought about her. Jude was in love with
her, she knew that. Diana would be grieving, having lost her again. Christine would be worried . . . But then, if she was
worried, why not come through to Ewigkreis to check on her? Mayfridh suspected that Christine was frightened to do so.

Perhaps it was better if Mayfridh didn’t see Christine again. She felt tears prick at her eyes. To lose such a dear friend
twice was careless. But how could Mayfridh look at Christine knowing that Jude’s heart was errant? Mayfridh closed her eyes.
Come, winter. Come, forgetfulness.
Life would be bearable and sane again, soon. All of these people would slip from her mind, and things would be as they always
had been, and Mayfridh would be oblivious to the emptiness that created inside her.

A shriek, deep in the woods. Mayfridh sat up with a start, her eyes flying open. Was it Hexebart? Had he found her already?

Far away, coming back to her on the breeze, she heard a stream of broken abuse. “Dog-chops . . . boil you alive . . . Princess
Putrid . . .” Oh yes, he had caught Hexebart.

Mayfridh stood, heart thumping. Not simply because Hexebart had been caught and the royal magic was safe, but because once
that dungeon door shut behind her, Hexebart had to tell.

Thumping and crashing through the woods they came, closer and closer, until Eisengrimm emerged, his Bear arms clamped around
Hexebart, who hung upside down and wriggled and squirmed and shrieked.

“Let me go, pig’s breath,” she screamed, her white hair flying as she struggled against him. Then when she saw Mayfridh waiting,
she began to spit and curse all the more, her face turning deep red. “Changeling! Cuckoo! Nothing but a turd with a crown.”

“Well done, Eisengrimm,” Mayfridh said.

“Let us get her to the dungeon quickly,” Eisengrimm replied. His voice was strained, betraying the effort of maintaining Bear
so long.

“Gladly.” Mayfridh hurried along behind him as he loped unevenly through trees, skirting the village. He leaned left, then
right, clutching Hexebart soundly around the thighs. Hexebart screamed and cried the whole way, but ran out of steam as they
approached the slope to the castle. Mayfridh knew Eisengrimm must be growing tired and sore, but he kept his steps quick,
bringing Hexebart to the dungeon only ten minutes after dragging her out of the forest.

“There,” he cried, throwing Hexebart to the floor and slamming the door behind her. Mayfridh pressed in with the key, only
breathing freely when she heard the lock clunk into place. When she turned around, Eisengrimm huddled, a fox, against the
wall behind her.

“Eisengrimm?”

“I’m so very sore, Mayfridh.” He hunched his shoulders up and shivered.

Mayfridh’s heart clutched. “Come, you poor fellow. I’ll take you to my bedroom and feed you treats until you feel better.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Hexebart, whose dark eyes gleamed deep in the dungeon. The witch was under oath; Mayfridh
could ask her right this instant for Jude’s secret and she had to give it. Yet how could she when Eisengrimm was so ill and
needed her attention?

And how could she when Eisengrimm was well again? After this last disaster, he would never leave her alone with Hexebart again.

Something soft brushed against her ankle. She looked down. Eisengrimm sat on the edge of her foot.

“I’ve got you,” she said, scooping him up in her arms.

He winced. “Mayfridh, be—”

“I’ll be gentle.”

She cradled him carefully against her chest and left Hexebart behind.

“Will you be back?” Hexebart called. “I have something to tell you.”

Mayfridh steeled herself and didn’t answer. In a few days, Eisengrimm would be feeling better. He would be well enough to
make a trip to the Real World for her, long enough to check on those she had left behind.

Long enough to leave her a few hours alone with Hexebart.

Work had been hellishly busy, the train hellishly crowded, and Christine ached all over by the time she turned into Vogelwald-Allee.
She hoped that Jude hadn’t drunk all the beer in the house already. He was struggling with some immense creative issue that
she knew she couldn’t hope to understand. He spent hours in his studio painting savage slashes of dark color as though he
hoped to damage the canvas with them, as though art were physical instead of mental. Four afternoons in a row he had been
back upstairs by four, drinking and chain-smoking and clicking his tongue and tapping his fingers. She hadn’t probed him.
He went through this periodically, and preferred it if she let him sink into it for a few weeks. He always resurfaced eventually.

Christine had her keys in her hand, ready to try the lock, when a flash of red caught the corner of her eye. She glanced to
her right. Something moved among the long grass growing around the storm drain. A dog or a cat or . . .

A small fox-shaped head peered out.

“Eisengrimm?”

He ducked into cover again. She hurried over. It must be Eisengrimm; surely foxes weren’t running loose in the city. She crouched
next to the gutter inlet and looked inside.

“Eisengrimm, is that you? Come out.”

He slunk forward. “Hello, Christine.”

“You didn’t come all the way down from the Tiergarten like that?”